The stove was already lit. Aunt Liu washed and smashed the ginger and put it in the pot. Just then Zhao Ger came in. Learning that Meng Ruqing wasn't feeling well, he wanted to take him to town to see a physician. Meng Ruqing shook his head: "It's nothing serious. Some ginger tea will do. I've never seen anyone kill a pig—I'd like to watch."
Besides the butcher, Uncle Liu had called several men and women from the village to help. Fang Zichen loved sleeping in—everyone had arrived and he was still snoring in bed with the two children.
Meng Ruqing glanced a few times toward his room, then went to help Zhao Ger.
Zhao Ger told him to rest. Setting aside the fact that he'd grown up in luxury and was probably even more clueless about practical matters than Fang Zichen, he wasn't feeling well right now—how could he be up and about helping?
But Meng Ruqing didn't dare let himself be idle. He knew there was something wrong with his mind—whenever he was idle, he'd start thinking about all sorts of things. He just wanted to do something to distract himself.
Zhao Ger didn't dare give him heavy work either. Just then, Guaizai and Liuliu came back from the factory hand in hand, so Zhao Ger told them to take Meng Ruqing to the field to pick some garlic leaves.
Since they'd invited people to help, they naturally had to serve lunch. The pig-killing feast was mostly stir-fried offal and pork belly stewed with napa cabbage.
The pork liver and lungs were gamier, and had to be stir-fried with garlic sprouts to taste good.
The pig was carried in, squealing the whole way. When it reached the courtyard and saw the big iron pot heating water in the corner, it seemed to understand something and squealed even louder. Fang Zichen pulled the blanket over his head—but the sound seemed to ring right by his ear.
Too noisy to sleep.
Gungun and Dandan rubbed their eyes and weren't sleepy anymore. They wiggled around under the blankets, tugging at Fang Zichen and saying they wanted to watch the pig being slaughtered. Fang Zichen had no choice but to get them dressed.
Just before leaving the room, he remembered Guaizai's feat. Though no one knew, Fang Zichen still felt vaguely embarrassed for some reason. There were many people in the courtyard, so he didn't dare go out. He had Uncle Tang watch the two children while he headed to the back courtyard himself—originally to relieve himself, but he saw Meng Ruqing and the two children picking scallion leaves. He instinctively turned to leave, but Meng Ruqing had already heard the movement and turned to look.
Now it would be rude to just walk away.
That wouldn't be polite.
"You're awake," Meng Ruqing stood up. Seeing Fang Zichen made him happy, his eyes bright and clear. He'd heard from Zhao Ger that Fang Zichen loved sleeping in, and it was still early, so he said softly: "Were you woken up by the noise?"
Fang Zichen gave a muffled "mm."
Guaizai's eyes darted around. He glanced at Meng Ruqing, then waved at Fang Zichen: "Father, come, pick scallions."
Aunt Liu had only planted a small patch of garlic sprouts — they could only pick the leaves, not pull them up. The leaves would grow back after being picked.
It was cold in winter, and some leaves had turned yellow. When Fang Zichen crouched down, Guaizai immediately sidled up next to him: "Father, are you cold?"
Fang Zichen picked garlic sprout leaves: "Not cold! It's fine. The place where your Brother Xiao Feng is—that's really cold, and it's snowing there!"
Guaizai said enviously: "Wow, then Brother Xiao Feng can build snowmen!"
This child loved playing in the snow. Back in the capital, even with his nose running from the cold, he'd build snowmen in the courtyard every day. Fang Zichen said: "When the New Year comes, Father will take you there to go skiing."
Guaizai's eyes lit up instantly, excited: "Really? Father, don't lie to Guaizai!"
Fang Zichen said shamelessly: "How could it be a lie? Your father is an honest, trustworthy, upright, and kind person."
"Wow, Father is the best!"
"Uncle Fang, Liuliu wants to go too."
"Then come along!"
They hadn't even gone yet, and the New Year was still several days away, but the two little ones were immediately happy, as if they were about to leave right then. They were like they'd been injected with chicken blood, picking garlic sprout leaves at flying speed.
Fang Zichen tapped Guaizai: "Son, that garlic sprout leaf has turned yellow—can't eat that."
Guaizai looked—the leaf in his hand was indeed a bit yellow—and immediately tossed it. But he was at the age of loving to ask questions, and his big little head held a big question mark: "Father, why can't we eat garlic sprout leaves and vegetable leaves once they turn yellow?"
Because yellowed ones aren't fresh, the nutrients have leached out, and there might even be viruses, bacteria, and other microorganisms—but that was too deep for a child to understand. So Fang Zichen fooled his son again: "Because it's yellow. That's an improper garlic sprout leaf. If you eat improper garlic sprout leaves, you'll become improper too."
[不正經 (bù zhèngjīng): improper / not proper — often for people (flirtatious, unserious), but also for things/food meaning "not the right kind."]
Guaizai scratched his head: "Is that so?" His expression was very serious, as if he'd glimpsed the truth of the matter.
"No wonder when vegetables turned yellow before, Daddy wouldn't let us eat them. So that's why! Guaizai understands now—when vegetables turn yellow, they become improper, and if people eat them, they'll be bad."
Fang Zichen was very pleased, patting his big little head: "The child is worth teaching."
Meng Ruqing: "......"
Meng Ruqing was speechless.
Though he'd never cooked or grown vegetables, he wasn't stupid. He'd thought Guaizai seemed smart—he learned everything on the first try—but sometimes he seemed silly, always saying strange things, and Meng Ruqing hadn't understood why. Now he did—it was all Fang Zichen's fooling.
Was this really okay, teaching his son like this?
He looked at Fang Zichen, wanting to say something but stopping, but before he could speak he started coughing—violently.
Fang Zichen's hand moved faster than his brain—instinctively, as if possessed, he patted Meng Ruqing's back.
The force was very light, yet it seemed to land right on his heart. Meng Ruqing paused, his heart warm: "Zichen......"
"Husband, husband!" Zhao Ger came running over in a panic, like his pants were on fire.
Fang Zichen jumped up, full of astonishment: "What's wrong? Did the pig run away again?"
That couldn't be! They'd invited Butcher Jiang — they said he'd been slaughtering pigs professionally for thirty years, so skilled he could do it blindfolded, and no pig had ever escaped his clutches.
"No." Zhao Ger was panting: "Uncle Qin suddenly fainted."
Meng Ruqing rushed to the front courtyard. Qin Hengxuan had already been carried to the bed. Pig blood was all over the ground in the courtyard—the pig had struggled violently earlier and blood had splattered everywhere, but no one had paid it any mind. Now everyone was anxiously gathered outside the door.
"What happened! How did he suddenly faint for no reason?"
"Don't know. Has someone gone to town to get the physician?"
"Yes, yes, Xiao Liu went just now."
Meng Ruqing came out from the back courtyard. Seeing the pig blood all over the yard, he knew Qin Hengxuan had probably fainted at the sight of blood. He breathed a sigh of relief, explained briefly, and told everyone to get back to work.
Fang Zichen went in to take a look. Qin Hengxuan was lying there peacefully—he didn't know who had moved him in, but they'd even folded his hands on his abdomen. If they changed him into burial clothes, with all the commotion outside, it really would look like a funeral feast.
Gungun and Dandan stood on tiptoe, leaning over the side of the bed, worried sick: "Pretty Uncle, is Handsome Grandpa okay?"
Meng Ruqing said it was nothing — he just fainted at the sight of blood. He'd wake up soon enough.
Fang Zichen had heard about this before. Fainting at the sight of blood wasn't a big deal; once the dizziness passed, he'd come around on his own. He grabbed Zhao Ger and headed back out.
The pig had been slaughtered, and there was still work to do—scraping off the hair, cutting it open, washing the intestines, chopping the meat. It was a busy, bustling time, but genuinely lively. At noon, Zhao Ger quickly stir-fried several big pots of food — all generous portions — and set up two tables in the courtyard. He knew the villagers were intimidated by them, and if they went out, everyone would feel awkward, so Qin Hengxuan and Meng Ruqing didn't go out to eat. Zhao Ger brought their food in to them separately.
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